


The story of John Watson

by JustTheStoryteller



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Depression, Eating Disorder, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self Harm, Thoughts of Suicide, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 16:22:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4486497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustTheStoryteller/pseuds/JustTheStoryteller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody knows the story of Sherlock Holmes, but who really knows the story of John Watson?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The story of John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> I'll try my best to update every week, let me know if you enjoyed this!
> 
> The characters in this story are not mine

John stared at himself in the mirror. His reflection stared back, his gaze filled with disgust and hatred. He tugged on his dull dirty blonde hair, willing it to do something interesting. He gave up trying to gel it into place years ago, leaving it as a lifeless heap on the top of his head. _Dull, dull, dull_ , he thought. His drab beige sweaters gave him too much comfort to forfeit in favor of something more fashionable, so day after day he sported a sweater and jeans. He brushed his teeth, walked past the kitchen, grabbed his bag, and headed to school. 

School was torture, to say the least. He was known as "John Watson, the friend of Sherlock Holmes," or in most cases, "that guy that hangs around Sherlock." He was a background character, only there to support the main star, Sherlock. Now, that wasn't the only reason school was torture. He got decent grades, and had few detentions, but it was all a facade. He plastered a smile to his face, forced laughs when girls flirted with him, pretended to eat his lunches at school, and gave Sherlock all of his attention.

The genius was his best friend, after all. So whenever he had a rough day or needed cheering up, John was first in line. He complimented his friend daily, reminding him how amazing and fantastic he was, despite never getting anything back. That didn't matter though, he wouldn't have believed it anyway.

After school, John wanted nothing more than to simply pile up his blankets and lay in the dark for hours. But he couldn't. He had chores, homework, and had to make sure Harry and his mum weren't too hungover. When he finished those however, he could finally be somewhere comfortable.

He climbed the stairs to his room with more enthusiasm than he had lent to anything that day. The old wooden door creaked as he opened it and closed it swiftly. He leaned against the smooth wood and slid to the floor. He held his head in his hands, crouched in a ball smaller than one would expect. He seemed large to everyone at school due to the sweaters. His sweaters were his armor. He could put one on and immediately play the part of strong, dashing, flirtatious, happy John Watson. Slowly, he stood up.

He hadn't drawn the blinds before he left so the room was dark. Absentmindedly he grabbed for his headphones and iPod, shuffling his favorite playlist and raising the volume to the loudest his ears could handle. John pulled his large comforter over his shoulder and laid down in the fetal position. He was completely covered, and most importantly, he was warm. John Watson was always cold, no matter how thick of a sweater he put on. He closed his eyes and soon got lost in the music.

He awoke hours later. The clock on his iPod read 10:37 PM. His mother was used to him not coming down for dinner, he usually prepared his own, so it was easy to skip meals. He rolled into his back and inspected the ceiling. He had every dot memorized. The boy filled his lungs with air and held it, testing how long he could last. Spots danced before his eyes, and he contemplated letting them take over. Letting them swallow his vision and consienceness.

Dejectedly he let the air go, imagining it swirling around the room. He felt empty, an indescribable emptiness that couldn't be put into words. John was neither happy nor sad, he simply felt like he was existing in a space void of emotion and feeling. It was torture. He was constantly desperate for distractions, and used to be able to find them in Sherlock's adventures. As the genius grew in popularity, however, he left John behind more and more so he could complete his investigations more quickly. Night after night, John sat in his bedroom with only his mind to occupy him as he did now. He could feel the darkness seeping more and more into his mind as he imagined his friends all out and about, celebrating Sherlock's latest successful case.

He stood suddenly.

He stumbled to his desk and rummaged through the drawers. The cold metal felt familiar in his fingers. It was relatively small, but it brought with it great power. He lifted his jumper up and off, tossing to to the floor. He sat cross-legged on his wooden floor and leaned to the side. His fingers ran over his ribs, sharp hip bones, and old scars that ran up his sides. _The hips are easy to hide_ , he thought with a wicked smile. The metal but sharply into his skin, and he immediately felt a smile cross his face. The line quickly turned red as it was followed by another, and another. He was caught up in the euphoria. He wildly thought of what would happen if his friends saw him as he really was. If they saw him as the broken, emancipated, addict he truly was.

He looked down at the mess that was his side and put down the blade. He returned to the desk and replaced the blade for a wad of gauze and tape.

Halfheartedly, he tended the wound and pulled the comforter, and the comfort of sleep, over him.


End file.
